


Tall Order

by Rayne11



Series: Candlefire [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/M, POV First Person, POV Tyrion Lannister, a day in the life, book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayne11/pseuds/Rayne11
Summary: As Hand of the Queen to newly crowned Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister must rebuild his life from the scorched remnants of his previous years. A stranger for a brother, a corpse for a guard, and one friend he can't bear to let down are all he has.Having lived through every hell imaginable, going back to living as he was meant to feels like a tall order.(This is a series where each story can be read as a one shot)
Relationships: (past relationship), (past), Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister/Penny (ASoIaF), Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister/Shae
Series: Candlefire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087946
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Tall Order

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to @ladysansaclegane for editing ❤️❤️❤️   
> Loved working with you and I really appreciate all your insights 
> 
> And thank you @deslabe for beta-ing❤️ 
> 
> Please do check out both of my super talented ladies for the best sansan fics 😍💝
> 
> ((Sorry for not adding this earlier, I impulse posted it really late at night))

You'd think I’d have gotten used to not having a nose by now, but you’d be wrong. Perhaps it's not something anyone ever gets used to. I can’t bloody forget it though, and I don't know if that's a good thing or bad. 

Penny certainly doesn’t seem to mind, though it might comfort her to know that it wasn’t all that stellar before Blackwater either. 

_Blackwater_ , I sigh. My list of horrors grows longer by the hour, it seems. It’s hard to keep track of where any of my particular scars came from, aside from Blackwater, of course. The nightmares seem to circle back to that night no matter where I am. 

Strange how things turned out. I take my meals down the table from Davos and Jaime; one whose sons I killed, and one who thinks I killed his son. You’d think they’d mind more, but you’d be wrong. Or maybe I’m too charming for my own good. The thought makes me laugh. 

The men throw glances my way before averting their eyes. I may be the shortest Lannister, but a Lannister nevertheless. Makes me wonder how much terror the name merrited before dear father. 

“Wine,” I call, raising my empty goblet like a war banner. “Winewineiwneinweinwenein… wine wine wine.” I slur, waiting for the word to turn into an incomprehensible mess. What? It does that to me, why shouldn't I return the favour?

Some tall woman comes and refills my goblet. She takes half a look at me and sets the jug down on the table by my side. 

“Want to see this neat trick I learned?” I ask her. “I can pour the wine down my nose and spit it out of my mouth.” It’s a neat trick. 

“Mayhaps, another time would be more ideal,” Sansa says. She’s alarmed, I can tell, trying to keep her voice level for the sake of pretense. You’d think the broad would get sick of pretense by now, but you guessed it,you’d be wrong. You’re wrong a lot,you know… youwouldn’t have made it very far in the game of thrones, I’m afraid. 

I want to tell Sansa to bugger off, but I know what’s worse. I down the goblet in one big gulp and steal a tankard from Jon Snow. “Hey,” he protests, though not loudly. Not very highborn behaviour to yell at the dinner table, is it? 

It’s got some ginger ale shit in it though. I empty it on the floor and refill it with wine. _Winewinewinewinewinewinewine. Wine._ I smile. 

“Lord Tyrion, I think you have had enough to drink,” Sansa says. Once a wife, always a wife, I suppose. She throws a frazzled look over to Jon Snow, or as we peasants now know him as Aegon Targaryen. 

“I think you’re right,” I agree, before proceeding to pour the wine down my nose. There are some horrified gasps all around me. Someone stumbles out of their chair and rushes to I assume the nearest chambor pot,h though they miss the best bit. 

Once I taste the wine on my tongue, I spit it out—all over Sansa Stark’s pretty, wool dress. _Wheew_ , I let out a low whistle. It is _ruined._

She has the look of abject horror plastered on her face—wide eyes, pale cheeks, mouth opened in an inverted crescent, a wobbling chin. I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. And my back. I can’t even breath but somehow manage to taste the wine all the way in my lungs. 

For a second there I think I’ll die. Well, at least I'll die happy knowing _that_ was the last thing I did. 

I’m hauled from my seat and several feet into the air. “That’s enough,” Sandor Clegane’s rasp comes from somewhere over my head. 

Sansa is standing now, making disgusted noises while a flurry of handmaidens rush to help her. 

People are pointing and laughing. I know they’re laughing at her because no one’s paying any attention to me or Clegane. 

_Crippled Clegane._ I wonder how much worse that is than _Little Lord Tyrion._

I have learned to enjoy the good things while they last. As short a time as that is, at least. And right now, I’m glad I don’t have to climb all the steps to the Tower of the Hand. It’s the least Clegane can do. 

He’s wobbly though. Oh, right. The leg. I had forgotten. It would be nasty of me to make him climb up all those steps. _Nasty indeed_. 

“Back in King’s Landing, eh, Clegane? It’s like we never left,” I say to distract him. It’s the least I can do for making him climb all these steps. 

_It’s working,_ I think. He’s so distracted he doesn’t reply.

"Last time you were here was… when? Blackwater? Ran away like a singed puppy. I had to do all the heavy lifting. Ah, how the tables have turned. I’m not very heavy, though.” 

“Shut. Up.”

“I. Will not.” I’m certain I giggle. 

The man almost growls, low in his throat. Before he gets any ideas about tossing me down, though, I try to make it up to him.

“You seem angry, Clegane. Don’t be. Shall I sing for you? I’ve heard you like that.” I don’t wait for an answer. 

_“For she was his secret treasure,_

_she was his shame and bliss,_

_But a chain and a keep are nothing,_

_Compared to a woman’s kiss!_

“Sing it with me!

_“Hands of gold are always COOOOLLLLDDDDDD,_

_But a woman’s hands are warm!_

_For HANDS OF GOLD ARE ALWAYS COLD—”_

“SHUT UP!” He bellows. 

I feel the ground coming incrementally closer to my eyes. The hard stone floor feels as flimsy as a handmaiden’s dress. I wobble and trip. It's like walking on waves. “Whoa,” I say, almost stumbling. 

Clegane catches me. He still has an iron grip on my left shoulder. Wait… left? Right? _I eat with this hand so_ — _Right_. My mistake. He has his hand on my right shoulder. 

“Quit the shite singing and I’ll carry you up,” he says. 

I wince. What a horrible voice he has. 

“Shite? Shite? I sound better than you could dare dream of. Mayhaps it’s the song that’s not to your taste. Fret not, I had the singer put to death.” 

Moonlight is not white, not really. It’s whiter than torchlight, that's for sure. The gargoyles are twisted. And hunched. Why are there no erect gargoyles? 

The stone is cold on my back. Cold on my head. Cold everywhere. But I don’t want to get up. I want to sleep. I want to rest. I want to be happy. 

Shouldn’t have laid down here, but after I sent Clegane away—I’m not a monster, after all. His leg really is bad—I sure wasn’t going to climb the Tower myself. 

Bronn would’ve been handy about now. Too bad he’s dead. Too bad, too bad. 

I don’t want to go the chambers. I might have to use the privy. _Or sleep._ I shudder, only a little from the cold. 

_“He rode to a woman’s sigh -_

_For hands of gold, are always cold...”_

+

Sunlight stings and my head pounds. The floor isn’t cold though, nor is it hard. It’s soft as summer silk and warm. Poking my head out through mounds of furs, I take in a lungful of air. 

There needs to be an easier way to do this, I think, as I kick the snug blankets off of me. _Penny._

It’s sweltering. The long night has made a muck out of all seasons. Now they all happen within the course of the day, and right now it’s high summer. 

My nose is dry. It itches, but in a way that’s more like hurt. 

First thing I notice when I get my bearings back is that I am not in the Tower of the Hand, but I don't know where I am. All chambers in the Red Keep look more or less the same. Red walls, gold curtains, and an excessive amount of candles. There’s the same dark wood furniture, and bed posts. How I hate it here sometimes. 

I’d leave if I knew where to go. Thing is, I’ve been nearly everywhere. And it's never been much better. 

“Penny!” I call out. “Penny!” My throat is sore and hurts with effort. I don't remember screaming last night. Maybe I had a good tumble with some kitchen wench. Several good tumbles... who’s to say? 

No one loves drinking more than I. No one’s better at it, either. We all sit around and drink and drown. We come back, live a little, and back into the water it is. Me, Jaime, Clegane, Snow—Hells, even Selmy. Our merry band of forgetters. 

My things are here, but Penny isn’t. I get restless. I’d left her with guards last night, told her to stay in her bloody chambers and not go sightseeing around the castle. 

She listens for the most part.—a good, obedient, girl. She likes to listen. Give her something boring to do and she’s at it like a horse. Last week I taught her how to write the alphabet. A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z. All of it. 

She learned quickly. Most persons of twenty don’t catch things that fast. She’s a smart girl. Told her to write it all over and over, again and again till she could say it backwards. Only took twenty rounds before she could. “Z Y X W V U T S R Q P O N M L K J I H G F E D C B A,” she recited happily. 

I kissed her cheek then. She didn’t flinch. She never does. I don’t understand how. I don’t know how she bears it. Bears me. I wouldn’t let me kiss me if I were her. 

“PENNY!” I bellow, but the sound is barely a husk. It feels like someone is crushing my skull and kicking my back at the same time. But I barely feel it over the terror running through my veins. “PENNY!” I’m running now. I trip several times. I’m not agile even on the best of days, and this is clearly not my best. My muscles cramp; first the hamstring, then the calf. My toes have started doing that horrid contraction. 

I don't care. “PENNY! PENNY!”

“I’m coming!” she calls. 

I freeze. A wave of relief washes over me. I stumble down onto the floor, sitting like a fat toddler. 

“I’m here, Tyrion,” she says and runs to me. She runs funny—her hands go out to the side instead of swinging front and back like others’ do. There’s nothing about Penny that is like other people. 

She crouches next to me, bent at the waist. Her soft brown hair tickles the side of my head and I lose it. I grab her and wail. I crush her in my arms so hard, she stumbles. Her knees hit me square in the chest, and the ache reminds me she’s here. She’s here and she’s unhurt. 

She’s here. She’s safe. 

“Penny,” I mumble helplessly into her stomach. I feel her sigh, the gentle breath against my crown. She runs her fingers through my hair. Runs her scratched, porcelain fingers through the mess that is my head. How can she bear to be so close to it? That’s where all my thoughts live. 

“You’re safe,” she tells me. _She_ tells _me_. 

I want to laugh but only end up sobbing even more. I’ve dirtied her pretty dress with my tears. I suppose she won’t mind too much since I paid for it. But I don't want to dirty her pretty dress even if I did pay for it. Who is she to me, anyway? Not my wife, not my whore, not my lover—I would not have that. 

She’s kissed me twice on the lips and I've kissed her countless times on her forehead. I’ve kissed away her tears and terrors, her nightmares, even memories. What good are they if all they do is make her cry? 

Her dress is lavender. With little flowers printed on the skirt panels. I’ve never seen it before. I know it's brought with my coin, because Penny hasn’t a penny to her name. 

I’ve given her some, but she refuses to call it hers—refuses to spend it beyond bare necessities. None of that stupid honour has gotten her anything. 

She sings whenever she gets a chance. It was how we had any money when the Lannister name, promises, and threats failed. Songs had won then. 

People would toss coins at her. Penny before Tyrion would’ve picked them up off the floor, but this Penny—Penny _with_ Tyrion—she asks them to place the coins in the cracked helm we used as a bowl, or to take the money back and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. 

It makes me proud. If anyone in this world needs to learn how to run their mouth, it's Penny. It’s a blessing she learnt this after she’s got me to protect her. Well, my name. No one’s afraid of a misshapen dwarf. A misshapen dwarf with an army, though—that gets them to change their tune quicker than I can blink. 

Once the crying fit has passed and I’m back on the bed, Penny arranges the furs around me. She thinks I’m still a little drunk. 

“I hate to break it to you Penny,” I tell her, “but I’ve always been a little drunk.” She giggles at that, bless her. 

I’m seized by a sudden mad desire to capture that sound. To hold it close to my heart. To listen to it everyday. Fall asleep to it and wake up to it. I make a vow to myself. I make a vow to myself. Vow to bring her laughter everyday for as long as I'm alive.

“Penny, I promise to make you laugh everyday,” I say, just before the cloud of sleep flows over and takes me under. 

+

New day, new beginning, that’s what I always say. _Not_. 

I want to go back to sleep, but Mormont is not having it. He wants me to get dressed and join Daenerys for a meeting on how to best combat the situation with Sansa and Jon. The situation being gaining control of the North. 

Had Bran Stark been here, it’d be so much easier. No one’s been able to find him. I’m starting to wonder if Greyjoy is lying. I don’t think he is, but I haven't been the best judge of character, have i?

I’ve had my moments, I won’t be humble, but I’ve made graver mistakes. 

Nevertheless, back to Bran Stark. Yes, he’s the ideal heir, Daenerys thinks. And by ideal, she means he’ll be more easier to control. Much easier than Sansa, who’s more cunning than she lets on. The whole bumbling, airheaded girl behavior, as we’ve come to learn, is nothing but a mummer’s farce.

She still maintains she had nothing to with Joffrey’s death, but I know she’s not told me _everything_. Should I dig more or let the woman have her secrets? All she has insisted upon is that she had no prior knowledge of it, nor did she mean to frame me. 

I don’t know how much of it I believe, or _if_ I even believe her at all. Not much trust in the rickety bridge that is our relationship; and for a short while, our marriage. The annulment happened months ago—the marriage years ago. 

Time flies, they say; but nobody tells you it ties you by a rope to its talons, and drags you through the bramble. That part they leave out. 

She’s with Clegane now, that’s what all the soldiers have started to say. Remind me to spit all over his dress too. 

+

My breakfast is laid out on my table, the curtains are still drawn. They glow red from the sun outside. I yawn and stretch, splash my face with water, and rub it with a washcloth. I put on the new balm Samwell Tarly has given me. It’s supposed to soothe, and the way my nose feels drier than the dornish desert, I need some soothing. 

It smells nice too, what little I can tell, that is. Probably why I was given horse duty while on the road. No smell, no trouble. 

My clothes are picked out on the armchair.

 _Penny._

Penny, Penny, Penny, when will she learn to stop fussing over me? She’s laid out a black doublet, slashed with red velvet, understated dark breeches, my Hand’s pin, and my small clothes. 

I find myself blushing. What business has the girl with my small clothes? I can manage that much, at least. I manage all of Westeros, do I not?

The bathwater is tepid, cooling rapidly. Lowering myself into the tub, I scrub. Scrub, scrub, scrub. I still feel a little tipsy. Can’t remember the last time I wasn't.  
Maybe I shouldn't make the Realm’s decisions half-drunk. But if I did them sober, I wouldn't have an excuse for fucking them up. 

The washcloth is rough, just the way I like it. 

Penny has picked out my soap too, naturally. It’s… pine? Something woody, but also cold. Not sandalwood.

She made sure that soap merchant had a gold mine of his own—brought lotions, soaps, special soap for your hair, for your face, some cream from Myr for calluses. Let her have her creams if they make her happy. Little enough does. 

I’ve got an early nameday present for her picked out. Or late. She doesn’t know when her nameday is.

Hopefully, she’ll like it. Them. I hope she’ll like _them_. Got her a piglet and a puppy. 

She might hate them though, hate me. Think I’m trying to replace Pretty Pig and Crunch. My fault for not taking her pets while I tried to save her life. Maybe the piglet is too much? 

Or… I could ask her: “My lady, shall I interest you in a kitten? They are very much like small lions, and I know you already like those.” 

New pet, new beginning. 

I pull on my small clothes and head to eat. Don’t want to get my fancy doublet dirty. Not yet, at least. 

I’m famished, but at the same time the sight of food makes my stomach turn. 

I start with a few pieces of melon and move on to some bread and cheese. It goes down easy. Easier with wine, but Penny hasn’t brought me any. She forbids me to have wine at breakfast. 

“Forbids” can you believe that? The nerve... I don’t mind, though, clearly. I haven’t had wine for breakfast in—oh gods, possibly a year—since she “forbade” me to do it, anyway. I have to compensate for it by drinking more at night. So whatever I end up doing at dinner is on Penny’s conscience. 

It’s too hot for even silk. I’m glad for the cold bathwater for once. The day has barely begun, and I already want to go back to sleep.

The Red Keep is haunted, I'm convinced. Or maybe it’s me who is. Either way, I’m certain I see ghosts. 


End file.
